


Fragile Balance

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Dark, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Resurrection, dark!stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>-Hiatus-<br/>When a dark force closes in on Beacon Hills, only a long-dead Alpha knows how to take down the threat.</p><p>But the universe calls for a balance in all things. For one thing to be gained, another must be lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

All of their research has led them here. But now that they’ve made it, Stiles can’t believe they’ve wasted their time.

Beacon Hills is a warzone… or a pre-warzone, at least. Dark powers have been amassing to the point that the pack can _feel_ them crackling like electricity through the air. Which is apparently a thing that really happens with dark magic. Generations of comics and anime had gotten that much right.

What had been mildly comforting (for all of twelve seconds) was when Derek had shifted to beta vision, squinting gleaming blue eyes up at the sky and sniffing at the air like he could smell the scent of evil in it, and murmured, “This has happened before.” Which, good, right? Because if this had happened before and the town was still standing, that meant this… whatever it is, was survivable.

That all fell apart when Peter had appeared, shifting uneasily, and offered to help.

Peter Hale didn’t _help._ Not unless there was something in it for him… or unless he was scared of the alternative.

Unfortunately, Peter’s “help” more or less consisted of confirming what Derek had already told them – that this had happened before.

“Great. Useful. Any chance you know how to, I don’t know, _stop_ it?”

Peter had looked at Stiles in askance, eyes rolling toward the (still crackling) heavens.

“I was a _teenager_.” Which won him exactly zero sympathetic looks from the teenagers present, and one exasperated sigh from the man who’d been a teenager when his whole life had burned to the ground. Peter had shrugged. “My sister was the Alpha. She dealt with it.”

So Scott had tried to deal with it. And for his efforts earned a jolt of dark power that had left him writhing in the woods for an hour straight, screaming and snarling and clawing at trees like a savage thing. It had taken Derek and Kira and, finally, a barrier of mountain ash to keep him from tearing them all apart.

Stiles had faced down threats worse than an out of control werewolf. Hell, he’d faced down an out of control Scott, specifically, more than once.

But he’d never been so sickly afraid as he was for that hour in the woods.

In the aftermath, Scott had been quiet. Pained and withdrawn in a way that left the rest of the pack flinching away from him, reaching out to him to comfort. It had taken hours for him to speak again, and his voice had rung out heavy and dull with too much knowledge.

He’d seen into the heart of the thing settling over the town. A dark energy, inhuman and empty of compassion, with no sense of reason, no will to compromise.

And it wanted to take the town as its own.

So when Lydia had begun slipping into dazes, dreaming of an ancient power – a way to save the town – the pack had dropped everything and resolved to find it.

Figured that banshee instincts would see _this_ as a solution.

.-

“What the hell,” Stiles breathes.

Lydia had slipped into a fugue state the moment they’d entered the cavern, collapsing to her knees and scrabbling at the notebook she’d been carrying around like a shield, writing frantically with distant eyes. When she’d come back to herself, she had handed it to Stiles without so much as a glance. Now Stiles’ eyes skim over her message as though it might tell him something new the third time through. “We’re trying to _avoid_ dying, Lydia. Not go walking straight into the bright white light.”

Because that’s what they’re apparently standing in front of. _Literally_. The pitch-black cave had brightened almost blindingly the second they’d walked in. Probably reacting to Lydia’s presence, though maybe it was just a magic mojo motion sensor that lit up the path to the underworld whenever some idiot stupid enough decided to wander through.

“I know that the answers are here,” she answers, gazing at the white portal with wide, searching eyes. Stiles follows her gaze, squinting against the glare of it, wondering what she’s seeing that his human eyes can’t. When he looks back she seems unsteady on her feet, a hand stretching out to catch Derek’s elbow.

Scott crosses the room to hover at Stiles’ side, and Stiles drops his gaze back to the page, frowning at the unsteady scrawl and reading the disjointed phrases aloud.

“ _The gateway stands open in times of need, worthy souls to seek…_ something. Um…  Salvation. _Salvation in death. The light begins the journey to the end. The beginning of life renewed. Offer thyself—_ ‘Thyself,’ seriously, Lydia? _Offer thyself to return what has been taken. Equal and opposite, balance in all things._ And then she has this sort of yin-yang thing going on, I guess that’s for balance, and that… is that your tattoo, Derek? A triskele? I thought that was about the power of threes, that doesn’t really track here—”

“It’s my family’s symbol,” Derek cuts in quietly. Lydia’s hand is white on his arm, and Derek turns slowly to look at her. “The symbol of the Hales.”

They hold gazes for what seems like forever, until finally Derek’s brows twitch, furrow, and smooth out. Lydia’s lips have pressed together, her head jerking in a small, tight nod.

Whatever message Lydia’s trying to send, apparently Derek gets it. And Lydia’s eyes are going unnervingly soft, her next breath coming in a little ragged.

“You gonna scream, then?” Derek speaks quietly, sounding strangely choked. Like he’s trying for teasing and wildly missing the mark. Lydia’s returning smile is a study in bottled misery.

“No need. Message already received, right?”

The moment’s oddly intimate, Lydia’s fingers still resting against Derek’s arm. The casual touch, the expressions, the cryptic words… Stiles finds it all wildly unnerving.

“Ok, so mind sharing with the rest of the class?”

That shakes them out of it, and Stiles feels a petty rush of triumph as they turn from each other. Derek’s eyes fall to Stiles, then flit just as quickly to Scott. He swallows, reaches a hand up to squeeze Lydia’s in a way that makes Stiles’ heart clench, before announcing:

“I know what I have to do.”

Scott sounds about as unsettled as Stiles feels when he answers:

“What… _you_ have to do?”

After his initial reaction, Derek seems oddly calm, his smooth expression and easy nod juxtaposed harshly against Lydia’s stricken features, the tears starting to slide down her cheeks.

There’s a crushing sensation in Stiles’ gut, but his brain doesn’t register what it means. He doesn’t _let_ himself get it.

Equal and opposite. Balance in all things.

A life for a life.

“My mom dealt with this before,” Derek reminds them, his eyes still on Scott. His lips even twitch a little when he speaks, like he’s happy about what’s happening. Like this is a good thing for him. “She knew what to do. She saved Beacon Hills.”

Scott takes a wary step forward.

“That’s great but, dude, I don’t think this place works like a Ouija board. And I don’t think we can jut hop over to the afterlife and ask her.”

“No,” Derek responds evenly. “I’m going to hop over to the afterlife, and you’ll ask her.”

It seems like a century passes before the words hit them, before they sink in.

“No,” Stiles says simply, because there’s really nothing else to say than that, is there? It’s stupid, it’s not happening, and that’s all there is to it.

Derek’s eyes slide, go to an area somewhere to the side of Stiles head, and for just a second Stiles sees his jaw go tight. Then he’s looking back at Scott, who’s watching Derek very carefully, like a general taking a risk assessment.

“This… this isn’t a guilt thing, is it?”

Derek just shrugs, next breath coming in a little heavy, his gaze not breaking.

“If it were a guilt thing I would probably trade myself for David.” Derek’s youngest sibling had been eight at the time of the fire. “Or Boyd. Erica.” He doesn’t even hide that he’d let himself die for any of them, the people he’s lost. That he thinks himself less worthy to stand here than any of them.

It makes Stiles' gut twist, hurts in a way he can’t begin to explain. But his body feels heavy, too numb to move. He can’t bring himself to _say_ anything. Instead his eyes go to Lydia – maybe Derek had misunderstood. He’s the type who’d misunderstand something like this. The type that would just jump to the most boneheaded, self-sacrificing conclusion.

But Lydia’s eyes have squeezed shut, her lips pressing together. Her damp cheeks gleam brightly as they reflect the unearthly white light.

Derek’s moved away from her slowly, going to stand right in front of Scott.

“I’m ok with this. This is good, this is the right thing, alright?” Derek holds Scott’s gaze until he lets out a defeated sigh and nods. And… no. _No_ , Scott is _not_ nodding along to this. Scott is not freaking _okaying_ this.

But Derek’s letting out a long sigh that sounds like relief, and Scott’s taking a slow step back, swallowing and nodding again, more quickly this time. Like he’s adjusting to the idea.

“You’re saving the town, you know.”

Derek’s lips twitch.

“For once.”

Scott lifts his chin.

“Like always.”

This time when Derek’s lips move the smile sticks. He nods once, a civilian salute, and then he’s turning away and Stiles feels something screaming inside him but he _can’t move_ , he can’t talk, he can’t throw himself around Derek’s ankle and hold him still until he comes to his senses because this? This is _stupid_. This is so unbelievably stupid.

And he gets it. Seriously, he does. He’s standing in front of a magic portal that could probably bring his own mom back, that could bring Allison back to Scott. The knowledge that he could save someone he thought he’d lost forever, even if it means he’ll be gone the second they arrive… it’s almost unbearable. He absolutely gets it.

But this can’t seriously be happening.

Derek’s halfway to the light when he falters, and Stiles can’t feel anything but relief when his shoulders tense and he turns back, eyes going unswervingly to Stiles.

No one will blame Derek for stopping. Hell, they’ll be _happy_ he’s stopping.

They’ll figure out another way, somehow they will. Derek doesn’t need to do this.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but Derek’s already moving, stalking back across the room in long steps. He stops less than a foot in front of Stiles, eyes dark with emotion, lips pressed thin. And when he opens his mouth, his voice has taken on that thin, ragged quality again. He’s definitely not as ok with this as he's letting on.

How the hell  _could_ he be? How could anyone?

“Before I go…”

No. Damnit, _no._ Stiles finds his voice again.

“You’re not going anywh—”

“ _Stiles._ ” Derek’s eyes are still dark, pupils blown out with fear and who knows what other emotion. Maybe just fear. The prospect of literally strolling across the room to your death is probably pretty unnerving. Still, Derek manages to drag a bit of familiar exasperation into his tone as he snaps, “I know what I have to do.”

This guy and his goddamn martyr complex. Stiles jabs a finger against his chest, and when that doesn’t feel like enough he fists his shirt instead.

“No, you know what you _think_ you have to do. That’s totally different. But listen to me when I tell you that you’re being an idiot, Derek. There’s another way.”

“Like what?”

“Like… fighting. Like figuring it out as we go. Like we do with every other mess we get ourselves into. _K_ _illing yourself_ isn't the answer, ok?”

He can’t believe anyone’s even entertaining the possibility. He can’t believe he’s the _only one_ arguing here. Derek’s eyes slide shut for just a second. His lips twitch and fall in a failed attempt at a smile, but when they open again some of the panic has faded, pupils slowly shrinking and eyes lightening back to bright green-gold as Derek settles back into the idea.

“Lydia brought us here. She can tell what needs to happen.”

“Well _screw her._ ” He throws his hand up. “I’m sorry, Lydia. But _screw_ Lydia. Of course her instincts are all death-related. That’s a banshee thing. That doesn’t mean it’s the only option.”

“But it’s the only sure one.”

Stiles’ next argument catches, his throat going dry. Derek has caught the hand still clutching at his shirt, holding it in a surprisingly gentle grip. A thumb runs along Stiles’ knuckles, and it hits Stiles that it’s the most care Derek has ever put into touching him. When Stiles fails to respond, Derek’s lips twitch again, a twisted little flash of triumph in his eyes. And that’s more familiar. This is what they do together. Even in a moment like this, Derek will always be thrilled to one-up Stiles in an argument.

Then he seems to remember why he’d stalked back here in the first place, because he’s right back to “But before I go…” and then he trails off, like he’s waiting for Stiles to interrupt a second time. Like that’s as far as he’d gotten in his mind.

And Stiles’ brain has gone back to numb, silent and numb. Trying to process this, trying to deal with… he can’t. And then Derek makes it all a thousand times worse, his hand squeezing on Stiles’ before dropping it, coming up to catch Stiles’ cheek instead.

“If this is the last chance I have… the last thing I… Stiles, I’m sorry. Just let me…”

And then Derek’s kissing him.

 _Kissing_ him. Derek.

It’s rough and harsh, desperate and imperfect. A little too wet as his mouth opens to catch Stiles’ bottom lip, a little bit painful as he drags his teeth across the sensitive skin. One hand is still on Stiles’ cheek, fingers pressing into his nape, the pad of his thumb caressing the smooth skin of his jaw. Stiles can’t keep track of the other hand, the way it flits up Stiles’ side, his arm, goes to fist into the dark flannel at his back and hold him like he’s never going to let go.

It takes too long for Stiles to get past the _what the hell_ of it all, and by the time his brain catches up his hand has already fisted its way into Derek’s hair, the other grabbing his arm under the shoulder and tugging him closer. Closer, _closer_ , if he holds Derek close enough he’ll have to forget about this stupid plan and… and he can keep kissing Stiles like this, keep giving him exactly what he hadn’t realized he needed.

How had he fucking lived without this all this time?

“Oh my _god_ ,” he groans between gasping breaths and Derek’s tongue and Derek’s lips and… “Why haven’t you done this before? Why haven’t we been doing this _always_?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek breathes again.

And Stiles scoffs, and licks lightly into his mouth, and says “Shut up. Stop being an idiot and keep… _yes_ , that. Oh god, keep doing that.”

Derek is arching in to press their chests together, rolling slowly into Stiles’ hips. And everything in the world feels far away, and Derek lets out a soft, pained sound and drags his nose until it nuzzles against Stiles’ ear.

“I wasn’t sure you… I didn’t think… but I should have. We should have had so much more time.”

And all at once, Stiles remembers where they are. What’s happening. The light past Derek’s shoulder is blinding, bringing tears stinging into his eyes. Shining bright enough to burn, bright enough to destroy. It’s enough to startle Stiles in place for a few vital seconds, while Derek kisses his neck and pulls away, taking several slow steps back. His hair’s a mess, his lips kiss-swollen. He’s smiling softly.

Something inside Stiles breaks.

“Derek, don’t.” That thing is a dam, knocking loose everything Stiles has been holding back. Every emotion, every repressed urge. Longing. Horror. “Derek, _don’t! Don’t!”_ He’s lost control, surging forward, straight toward Derek and that damn awful light. Feeling himself get caught, get held back by _something_ and he doesn’t even know what, doesn’t even care, caught up in the thrum of raw, aching panic, clawing desperation, the taste of Derek still in his mouth. And Derek’s too close to the light now, too close, the edges of his frame blurring as he turns back to catch Stiles’ eyes again.

Stiles had never realized what the sight of those eyes could do to him if opened himself up and let it. He’d never realized how much he needed it. Needed this. Needed—

“ _Derek!_ ”

But Derek just offers a thin shiver of a smile, his voice ringing out clearly across the chamber:

“I offer myself for Talia Hale.”

And then Lydia does scream, the light going sharp and dark in an ultraviolet flash that leaves Stiles blind and Scott howling. Slowly, achingly slowly, Stiles' vision returns. The cavern rests in deep shadow, lit at odd angles by the light of their abandoned flashlights.

And Derek is gone, the white archway gone with him.

.-

Talia Hale is one of the most impressive women Stiles has ever met. And he has Melissa McCall, his own mother… hell, _Lydia Martin_ for reference. She’s kind and fierce, gentle and wise. A caring and generous ally, a boon to the town, and a true alpha a way it will take Scott half a lifetime to manage.

Every day, Stiles wishes she were dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came out in a whirlwind today. It might be the end, or might continue. Let me know what you think, lovelies.
> 
> (PS - I almost named this "Equivalent Exchange", but I was afraid of getting too Full Metal Alchemist with it.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing! I have a plot, now, guys. And it will potentially get really big. I'm not sure exactly how big I'll let it get yet, but we're starting down a darker path here. And Derek might not be around, but it's still incredibly Sterek-centric.

“ _Derek_!”

Scott’s vice-grip loosens when the light goes out. Stiles wrenches himself away, moving in stumbling steps across the too-dark chamber toward the cave wall. The space where the light had been is nothing more than plain rock now, but Stiles can’t stop himself from falling against it, palms slamming into the grey slate like the impact would be enough to shake something loose, to make any kind of difference.

“Damn it Derek, you can’t _do_ that. You can’t just…”

Tears are springing up in his eyes, hot and frustrated, palms stinging as he slams them repeatedly against the unyielding surface. It hadn’t been so unyielding thirty seconds ago, when it had swallowed Derek whole. No, there had to be a way to bring back that light, to fix this.

The light had taken him, it could damn well give him back. If he could just get to it.

His hand fists, punching straight into the rock, a ragged cry tearing free at the impact.

“You can’t _start_ something like that and just…”

His throat’s as raw as his hands. Bloody, bruised hands, scrabbling at the rock, now. Digging into the nooks and cracks in the rough surface. There has to be something. There has to be _something_. It all happened too fast, too… easily. No blood, no battle, just a goodbye and gone.

That can’t be it. People’s lives aren’t just _over_ like that.

Stories don’t get cut off barely before they’ve started.

“Stiles…” It’s Scott’s voice, thin and distant and hovering on that awkward edge of sympathetic and confused. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get why Stiles is beating his fists bloody, screaming at a person who’s gone… doesn’t get that Stiles doesn’t understand it any better.

Why the fuck had Derek kissed him? It had torn something loose inside of him, set something screaming in a language he barely understands, in voices like need and home and unbearable loss.

“Fuck you, ok? _Fuck you._ You can’t just… _Derek…_ Come back…”

He’s pressed against cold, lifeless stone, hands fisted and forehead digging against it like he could force himself straight through. Frustrated, angry, _aching_ tears are building up in his eyes, and he swallows back a raw sob. He can’t. He can’t cry. He can’t let himself…

A hand touches his shoulder, and he tenses at the touch. He can’t look at Lydia. Can’t face her with the knowledge that she led them here. And Scott… he can’t even talk to Scott. He’d held Stiles back, just fucking nodded and agreed to let Derek do this. Derek _looked_ to Scott, he would have stayed if Scott had told him to.

Stiles wasn’t enough, apparently. But he would have listened to Scott.

Stiles’ short nails bite into his palms.

But the voice that rings out, a sanguine and velvet-smooth alto, belongs to neither of his friends.

“Are you talking about Derek Hale? Tell me exactly what happened.”

And Stiles finds himself turning to face a dark-haired, middle aged woman. She stands, naked and beautiful, in the angled beams of the flashlights, with the easy poise of someone whose confidence has nothing to do with that beauty, but with raw power and years of practice using it. She has Cora’s bone structure, and something of Derek in her intense gaze and arching brows.

Talia Hale.

Stiles levels her with an even look.

“Your stupid, martyr-happy prick of a son just killed himself. That’s what happened.”

He shakes off her hand and stalks out of the cave, blood dripping from his battered knuckles as he goes.

.-

The town’s still in crisis. There’s no time to hold grudges, and Stiles knows it’s not fair to try, anyway.

The person he wants to be angry at isn’t even here anymore.

Scott climbs through his window sometime around dawn – bringing up memories of another wolf doing the same thing, sending fresh aches roiling through Stiles’ gut. Scott moves warily, uncomfortable in the space that’s as familiar to him as his own room.

Stiles’ eyes flick to him briefly, then drift back to his slowly scabbing hands. Scott wavers a few seconds longer, but Stiles doesn’t stop him when he goes to the corner and pulls out the first aid kit Stiles has tucked behind his desk. He doesn’t object when Scott crouches next to the bed and dabs the cuts with antiseptic, wiping away the trails of blood and bandaging them with careful motions like he’s one of the more volatile pets at Deaton’s clinic.

He doesn’t speak until he’s finished wrapping.

“I didn’t know that you and he…”

Scott’s staring down at the bandages, avoiding Stiles’ vacant expression. Stiles feels, distantly, his head bob in a slow, wondering shake.

“I didn’t either.” But something about that strikes him as wrong, as unfair, and he forces himself to focus long enough to add: “It wouldn’t be ok, what he did, even if I didn’t…”

“No one thinks it’s ok, Stiles.” Stiles can’t bring himself to respond, too lost in his own thoughts, in trying like hell to _avoid_ thought altogether. Somewhere beyond the walls in his mind barring off what happened, the what-ifs, the why did we nevers, he feels Scott place his hand gently on the bed. Scott sighs.

“Dude, I… I felt that thing in my head. When I tried to bargain with it out in the preserve. I _felt_ the evil in it. Everything hurt and nothing mattered, and it was going to do that to the _town,_ Stiles, to everyone. It was going to tear everything apart. If Talia’s the way to stop that… I couldn’t sacrifice the town for one person, any person.”

Stiles’ hand clenches in the sheets, cuts burning with the pressure. Stinging tears spring back into his eyes. It’s his fucking hand hurting, damn it. That’s why he’s crying.

…The hand he beat into a wall, begging for Derek to come back to him.

But he can’t think about it. About Derek playing the good soldier, willing to lay down his life without a second thought to help the team. General Scott strategically sacrificing what’s needed for the greater good.

Stiles is the most strategic person he knows; he understands the need to sacrifice now and then in the name of victory. Losing a piece might hurt like hell, but as long as you have your king you can keep moving forward.

 _Why_ can’t Stiles move forward?

Scott is finally looking at him now, expression open and imploring, nothing of the general shining through.

“What should I have done?”

He knows what Scott needs to hear. He even knows it’s probably the right answer. It still feels like broken glass dragging up his throat as he says, “You did the right thing.”

He did.

The tears burn his eyes as he blinks them away.

.-

Talia Hale is… impressive.

Stiles doesn’t know what the afterlife is like – if there _is_ one – but apparently it doesn’t give you a lot of glimpses of what’s happening back in the living world. The revelation of her family’s demise in the fire, of Laura’s murder and Derek’s sacrifice, is apparently all new to her. According to Scott, she took it all in calmly, with pursed lips and clipped nods, but Stiles is still shocked to see her functioning so well.

She’s staying in the loft, which has become the staging ground for the pack’s battle against the enemy. Talia just calls it a wraith, and apparently there’s no easy answer to defeating it. Talia doesn’t have a spell up her sleeve, a magic solution to send it screaming back to hell.

…What did they bring her back for, then?

She welcomes Stiles like she owns the place, smiling as though he hadn’t stormed out on her the day before. There’s not so much as a cursory glance at his bandaged hands (even Lydia had spared it a moment’s pitying glance). She’s apparently heard great things about Stiles’ skill at research and drawing conclusions from loose data, and his help would be greatly appreciated in perfecting a strategy to defending the town.

She does everything possible to make him feel welcome… and he feels numb to it all. He trails along after her listlessly, staring around the open space.

The loft. Derek’s loft. Everything about it looks different suddenly, every detail holding meaning Stiles had never bothered ascribing to it before.

This place is haunted with memories of the missing and the dead. Cora, Isaac, away and out of reach. Boyd, Erica, dead. And now Derek. And living here in his place is an actual ghost.

The bed in the corner is _Derek’s bed._ Derek slept there. Derek won’t ever sleep there again. Derek’s dog-eared collection of novels (pun totally intended) are still stacked haphazardly on that lonely little shelf in the corner, his drawers filled with the Henleys Stiles had always smirked at, all those little extra details at odds with the hardened air he tried to put on. Because what the hell kind of tough guy bought shirts with thumbholes, really? The big softie.

What’s going to happen to it all? Who gets custody of Derek’s few worldly possessions? His dead mother? Does he even _have_ a will?

That coffee mug on the counter, chipped on one edge because it wouldn’t even occur to Derek to buy a new one if it was still functional… Derek wouldn’t ever drink out of the stupid thing again. And no one else would ever use it, and it would probably end up in a junk yard, and… fuck, Talia is processing the deaths of her entire family and still planning out battle strategies, and Stiles can’t handle looking at Derek’s stupid coffee mug without tears springing up in his eyes.

Scott’s hand touches his shoulder, and Stiles forces himself back to the present to find the others all staring.

He mentally backtracks, registers Talia’s words, and jerks his head in a tight nod.

“Yeah, my dad should hear about what’s happening. He already knows something’s going on, and humans aren’t in any less danger from this thing than supernaturals, right?”

.-

Stiles takes the mug home with him. It stands out awkwardly at the edge of his desk: a little, half-broken thing that had probably meant less than nothing to Derek in the first place. A stupid, chipped and fragmented survivor that no one else had wanted, anyway.

The ragged edge catches in the moonlight. He stares at it until he goes to sleep.

.-

On the third day, Stiles wakes up deciding that he doesn’t care. He’s just not going to fucking care, because he’s being ridiculous. He and Derek weren’t really anything anyway, and who knows if they ever _would_ have been, because apparently Derek hadn’t wanted to find out enough to tell Stiles how he felt until he was literally at death’s door.

… _If_ he felt.

Because you know what? It probably hadn’t meant anything. Maybe Derek had just wanted one last kiss before he clocked out and Stiles happened to be convenient. He’d taken that tremble in Derek’s hands, the wrecked sound of his voice, the “we should have had more time” all as signs of his feelings for Stiles. But it had probably just been nerves about what he was planning to do. He’d been a last hurrah for Derek, that was it. He needs to stop making it more than it was.

He should just throw out the stupid mug. He’s never going to use it anyway.

It’s still sitting on the desk when he heads out for the loft.

.-

The town is in danger. This is no time to hold grudges.

Stiles carefully absorbs to the information Talia has on the wraith. A dark spirit from the afterlife, and so far they’re only seeing its shadow. He listens grimly to the hell it will unleash, how it will seep into the souls of the weak-willed and violent, the broken and the evil-intentioned, and feed on the ripe, juicy darkness lurking inside.

Feasting on violence and darkness. Stiles _doesn’t_ think about all the ways that sounds familiar. He finds Lydia’s eyes going to him, and scowls before she can bring it up.

He’s not holding a grudge, he’s not. He just doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to interrupt their current crisis to chat about his _feelings_ over how painfully similar it all sounds to the monster that almost drove him insane last fall.

Doesn’t want Talia freaking Hale hearing about it and thinking he’s even more of a headcase than he’s already come off as.

Besides, the Nogitsune had only wanted to cause a little mindless chaos. This creature plans to use its gathered energy to open a literal gateway between hell and earth.

Oh yeah, because apparently hell dimensions are a thing. Awesome, right?

Stiles keeps himself busy avoiding pitying looks, providing up-to-date intel on the people most likely to be drawn in by the creature (the residents of Eichen House, more fun memories), and opening up a dialogue between Talia and his father. Which goes easier than he’d expected, when it turns out they’d had been acquaintances before the fire. Maybe even friends, he thinks, from the way his dad startles and clasps Talia’s hand when he sees her.

…Maybe Stiles and Derek would have still met, if the fire hadn’t happened. Stiles and his dad coming by for dinner one night, the Hales’ son just back from college. In a simpler life, maybe they could have been…

No. He squashes the thought before it can gain a life in his mind.

So he focuses on the problem. He strategizes, he advises, and he keeps the bitterness from creeping into his voice as Talia assumes command of the operation like she’s still the Alpha and protector of Beacon Hills. Like she deserves to be here. Like her son didn’t die to grant her the privilege.

.-

This, of course, is when Peter comes to him. He’s been laying low since Talia’s return, not exactly rushing to welcome his big sister back to the world of the living. Which is probably a smart move, if Scott has explained everything about Laura’s death. Honestly, with that on top of the wraith threat he’d been so worried about, Stiles is surprised the guy’s still in town at all.

He finds Stiles in front of his house, lurking in the shadows of his garage like the homicidal creeper he is.

“I hear that my nephew left you a parting gift.” Stiles slams the door to his jeep shut and thinks, wildly, of the mug sitting on his desk in his room. Peter just smirks, fingers lifting to his own lips. “He shared his hopeless little feelings for you.”

The words hit Stiles harder than they should, dragging up everything he’s been repressing… getting over… no, who the fuck is he kidding, _sulking in_ all day.

It shouldn’t matter. He _told_ himself it didn’t matter.

But in his mind Derek’s fingers are clutching at him again, caressing him, desperate apologies whispering against his skin. He sees Derek’s lips tilting, sad and soft and longing, as he backs toward that bright light.

They _could_ have had so much more time, damn it. They deserved time to figure out what they were.

He feels choked when he drags himself out of the memory, tongue heavy and clumsy as he swallows back a sound that threatens to escape as a whimper. He hadn’t wanted to think about this. Hadn’t wanted to deal with it anymore. When he speaks, he hears his voice breaking, feels it in the raw way his throat grates and tears at the words.

“Why hopeless?”

Peter’s arched brow is enough of an answer, and Stiles can’t really argue. What about this _isn’t_ hopeless? But the man decides to indulge them both anyway.

“You know his history. Has ‘Derek’ and ‘romance’ ever ended in anything but tragedy?”

So that’s it, then. He’s just the last, ragged edge in Derek’s history of broken relationships. Maybe the most pathetic piece, since all they’d shared was a little unconscious pining and one desperate kiss.

“What do you want, Peter?”

The man smirks. Stiles’ battered hands ache to beat his face in.

“It’s a boring game that always operates by the same rules. There’s no reason Derek’s past failures should dictate his future.”

Stiles stares for too long, licking his lips before speaking carefully.

“Derek doesn’t _have_ a future.”

“Talia shouldn’t have a future,” Peter counters with a shrug. “But one simple sacrifice was enough to break that rule. And the universe doesn’t enjoy its rules being broken, Stiles.”

“…Do you want me to point out the irony right now or should I just let it hang there?”

Peter had _set_ the standard for zombie Hales walking around town like it’s nothing. But Peter’s lips just curl, eyes dancing.

“I don’t claim to be on the side of balance. I’m on the side that serves me best. But there’s no reason you can’t use the principles of balance to your advantage. Derek died an unnatural death. There are ways to make use of that, if you understand how.”

He leaves after that, smirking, while his words twist and roil in Stiles’ gut.

.-

He finds himself back in the grey cave, staring at the wall that had once burned with a light bright enough to swallow a person whole. There’s nothing extraordinary about it now, nothing to suggest that it moonlights as a gateway to the afterlife.

He tries, tentatively, reaching out and running his palm over the cool stone. Big surprise, it doesn’t yield. His eyes drift closed, forehead slumping against the rough surface, picturing Derek’s challenging gaze.

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? We’ve been through hell before; we could have figured this out. We didn’t need her.”

“I dare say you didn’t.”

The voice should startle him, but somehow doesn’t. His eyes slide open and he turns slowly to take her in – Talia Hale, standing at the mouth of the cave and smiling in that patient way that leaves Stiles wanting to shove her, to break something, to do _anything_ to shake that look of easy control from her eyes.

There are things that people probably shouldn’t overhear you saying. “I wish you were still dead” is definitely one of them, and Stiles has enough basic human decency to grit out: “Mrs. Hale, I didn’t mean—“

“Talia, please. And of course you did.” She takes a slow step out of the mouth of the tunnel, and Stiles realizes with a shock that almost breaks him that she’s wearing Derek’s jacket. It hangs too loose on her shoulders, arms going to the tips of her fingers. Stiles looks away, reminding himself that she has every right to it, has more right to it than anyone, no matter how ill it fits her.

But he can’t fight the sick twist in his gut at the sight: just one more thing of Derek’s she’s stolen.

She misinterprets his averted gaze because she continues, calm and gentle: “It’s alright, Stiles. I’m glad my son had someone who cares about him so deeply.”

Stiles scoffs, an automatic reaction. A defense against feelings that don’t make the smallest kind of sense anyway.

“Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong. We weren’t anything.”

“Scott told me that Derek kissed you.”

He doesn’t want to think about it. It _hurts_ to remember it. His eyes flit to Talia, and something about her knowing look brings the anger surging out.

“Your son’s a dick. Seriously. I can’t believe… he just… he _did_ that and died, like that’s totally ok. I would’ve been fine if he hadn’t, you know? I would’ve gone on totally oblivious and I would’ve gotten over it. And now he gets out of dealing with this whole shit storm _he_ created because he’s fucking _dead_. And the worst part… I’m not even allowed to think about how fucking selfish he was because he was literally _walking to his death_ so the town could survive. I mean, how the hell can you blame him for anything after that?”

He stops abruptly, breaths coming out ragged, suddenly very aware of the fact that this is the most he’s spoken in three days. And he’s talking to _her._

When he finds her face again, she’s contemplating the space just over his shoulder in a way that’s so _Derek_ it makes his chest ache and his throat go tight to look at. Then her lips twitch and tug upward, sad eyes shifting back to Stiles’ face and holding his gaze steadily.

“It’s alright to think it was selfish. It _was_ selfish. One selfless act doesn’t negate another, self-serving one. I missed too much of Derek’s life, and I can’t claim to know the man my son became. You could probably explain his actions better than me. Maybe Derek was unwilling to leave this world behind without you knowing how he felt. Maybe he just liked the idea of someone missing him. Or maybe that kiss was what gave him the strength to walk those last several steps, to do what he felt needed doing. But whatever the reason, he forced a revelation on you that you hadn’t asked for, that you might have been more content without. I apologize for his actions.”

She’s defending Stiles, agreeing with him… but now that she’s saying it, Stiles realizes he doesn’t want her to. He doesn’t _want_ Derek’s mom thinking that he was the type of person to be selfish in his final moments. Especially when it’s the furthest thing from the truth.

“It’s not… I don’t think he… I mean. Derek’s just got this knack for the dramatic, you know? Coming in and going out with a…”

Bang. Flash. Blinding ultraviolet. The memory hits him like a physical sensation, and he chokes on the word.

Crap…five seconds trying to stay positive and he already feels spent. He slumps back against the wall, feeling his blithe smile go tight and wobble. After a brief, valiant effort he stops trying, grin falling and eyes sliding to the spot he’d been standing when Derek’s lips had found his. It’s not hard. You don’t forget where you were standing when the world rocked off its center.

“He always made things so fucking hard.”

At the edge of his vision he sees Talia’s lips twitch, as though she’s remembering a much younger Derek who still went out of his way to make life harder than it needed to be. Probably making the whole family miserable in the process.

Moody teenage Derek… Stiles would pay for a video of that. God, moody _toddler_ Derek. He snorts before catching himself, swallowing it down. Fuck, he can’t be laughing in this graveyard.

He wonders if Talia followed him here for this heart-to-heart, or if she just has a habit of visiting the place her son died, the place where she’d come back to life.

He wonders if she’s visited the shell of the Hale house yet.

“You’re wearing his jacket.” Of all his thoughts, this is the one to escape. Stiles hadn’t meant for it, for the way his voice slips into a snarl at the end.

Her eyes go soft, fingers smoothing down the old leather.

“The trouble with being dead for nearly a decade – you find your clothing options somewhat limited when you return.” Stiles’ jaw ticks, and she sighs. “It smells like my son, like pack. When things are stripped away, sometimes it helps to have something to hold on to.”

She knows about the mug; Stiles can tell by the arch in her brows, the way she shapes her words.

“I wish you were still dead.”

He doesn’t even try to fight the words this time, embracing the heady rush of the wrath behind them. It’s a relief to let himself be angry, and he expects her to leave, or at least to snap back at him. He’d welcome either reaction, but instead he gets another quiet sigh.

“That’s a curious way to look at it. Wouldn’t it be better to say you wish Derek were still alive?”

She does leave then, abandoning Stiles to the grey cave and darker thoughts.

.-

A dark red Henley is sitting on his bed, neatly folded, when he finally finds his way home. It was one of Derek’s favorites, if the amount of times Stiles remembers seeing him in it, if the slight fraying around the edges of the thumbholes, are any indication.

A peace offering – you can’t have the jacket, but here’s one of his favorite shirts to remember him by.

He stares at it dully, the maroon color taking on a bloody hue in the dawn light. How Talia would know that Derek favored the shirt, that Stiles had quietly reveled in the way it made Derek look softer, more approachable, more _human_ … Stiles can’t guess. Maybe Derek’s scent is just stronger on it than the others.

He thinks about putting it on, but the idea of his own scent washing Derek’s away holds him back. Maybe he can’t smell it, maybe he doesn’t have the first clue _what_ Derek smells like, not the way wolves do. But it’s there. Once it’s gone, he can’t get it back.

He spends the night with it splayed out across the mattress, fingering the edge of one sleeve.

At one point he lifts it to his lips, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. All he gets is fabric, with maybe the barest hint of lemon laundry detergent.

Talia would be able to smell Derek’s echo in the clothes. He hates her a little bit more for that. The night wears on, and he drifts into dark dreams.

.-

 _Derek is spread out over him, pressing hot kisses against his bare chest. He breathes wordless endearments Stiles can’t hear but can_ feel _deep in his bones, and Stiles is rocking up into him, head rolling back as he chases a feeling, perfection,_ completeness _, that he can’t remember coming this close to before._

An unnatural death.

_He whimpers, hands smoothing up Derek’s sides, gripping his biceps and pulling him up Stiles’ body until they’re kissing, slow and deep, rough and longing. It’s so damn close to perfect, the rake of Derek’s beard against his dragging lips, the way his arms flex under Stiles’ hands as he rolls down to grind their hips together, to deepen the kiss. He gasps his mouth open, letting Derek lick into it. He never imagined these kinds of sensations, needing something this badly._

_But the hotter he gets, the emptier he feels._

_Ragged noises are dragging from his throat now, his legs clenching around Derek’s hips, arms gripping under Derek’s and tugging himself upward. His whole body lifts from the bed to grind, sharp and frantic, against Derek’s own._

_Derek’s tongue rakes into his mouth, lips cold against Stiles’ feverish skin. He lowers them both until Stiles is being driven into the mattress, until he feels the breath crushing out of him with every hungry thrust._

_Sometimes it feels like Derek’s inside of him, driving in deep, filling him until he aches from it, until he shudders and whines with each snap and grind. Sometimes he’s the one thrusting in, feeling an almost unbearable friction all around him, making Derek’s mouth go slack when he hits the right spot._

_It’s good and filthy and fulfilling in a way that isn’t physically possible…_

_And Stiles still feels so damn empty._

The universe doesn’t like its rules being broken.

_Fuck, no… fuck…_

_“Stay with me.”_

_It’s the first time either of them has spoken, and it grounds them. Stiles’ own words drag him out of the hazy pleasure and the feeling of everything slipping. The aching hollow in his chest keeps getting worse, though, and he’s not thrusting anymore, just clutching at Derek, holding on, holding him close. Not letting him go again._

_They’re not even naked now, Derek’s too-pale, frigid skin wrapped in a soft, red shirt. He’s still spread on top of Stiles, his arms wrapped around Stiles’ neck and back, breaths coming out sharp as he gasps against Stiles’ ear._

_“I want to stay. Stiles…”_

_Stiles’ hands find their way around his shoulders, raking through his hair, down the taut muscles of his spine._

_“Then stay.”_

_“I can’t.” Lips trail across his ear, the edge of stubble ghosting Stiles’ cheek when he moves. “Everything’s out of balance. Being here makes it worse. I just… I needed to find you, to feel you, to feel warm.”_

_He’s freezing against Stiles, where skin meets skin. Stiles’ next shudder comes not from desperation, but from the frigid sensations engulfing him._

_Stiles groans, head dropping back into the mattress. Derek’s dead, so he’s cold._

_“Oh god, I’m dreaming in clichés.”_

_Derek’s frigid lips curl against his collar, shifting hips grinding against Stiles’ groin. His eyes fall shut in a too-long blink, his breath catching, and Derek chuckles against his throat._

_“So how’s the war going back in the living world?”_

_The question hits Stiles sideways; he finds himself laughing. How can he even explain that every fucking thing Talia says makes him want to claw at his own ears, that he doesn’t even remember the last time he’s spoken to Scott or Lydia or the others, that he can hardly think about the fact that the town’s on the verge of destruction because he’s so impossibly gone on missing Derek, on wondering what might have been?_

_“We’re handling it. Could’ve handled it just as well with you.”_

_“Probably better,” Derek agrees conversationally, sucking a frigid bite into Stiles’ collar. Stiles lets his neck arch into the contact, eyes rolling, waiting for a smirk or self-deprecating follow up that doesn’t come. It takes too long for Stiles to answer, but he can’t bring himself to break away from the sensation. Cold or not, hollow feeling in his gut or not, dream-Derek knows his way around a hickey._

_“So why…_ fuck, _yes right there, god… why the whole sacrifice thing if we could’ve handled it without her?”_

_Derek’s mouth is gone from his neck, and Stiles groans at the loss until claiming fingers press into the sore flesh, dragging on it, caressing it. Fuck, yes. Yes, that feels real. This could be real._

_“You’re the one who figures things out, Stiles. Think it through.”_

_“You’re a figment of my imagination,” he snaps back. “You help.”_

_Derek smiles down at him, too pale skin and shadowed eyes, as the fingers trail down his collar._

_“Well, your enemy is a creature of darkness. Death. It wants the world out of balance so it can break through the weakened barrier, and drag hell out to earth after it.”_

_“Not exactly news there, dream-Derek.” Stiles smirks, heart fluttering wildly when Derek grins back. “So what, you’re saying your death helped out with that? Little full of yourself there, aren’t you, big guy?”_

_Derek’s palm slides to press against Stiles’ chest. He sighs, like he’s savoring the sensation of his heartbeat._

_“I’m saying that_ maybe _throwing off the balance helped out with that.”_

_Peter’s words rise up again in Stiles’ mind: Talia shouldn’t have a future._

_“What’s dead should stay dead.”_

_Derek’s lips quirk sadly._

_“I died an unnatural death. My mother was brought back when she should have stayed gone. What if we were just feeding the creature? Creating a crack in the natural order it could use to worm its way free?”_

_Stiles stares, reaches up to catch Derek’s cold hand._

_“But Lydia led us there. She felt…”_

_…But who knew what had led her to that cave? She was still working out her own powers. She followed the trail left by voices she heard in her head. Who knew what forces could tap into that connection?_

_His chest is aching, the cold of Derek’s palm burning into him as the emptiness eats its way out._

_It’s a dream. Just a fucking dream. His hopes and fears made visible. He clutches at Derek’s hand, lets out a wild whimper._

_“What should I do?”_

_Derek leans down over him, grinning wickedly, and bites a dragging kiss into his lower lip._

_“Figure it out.”_

_His fingers dig against Stiles’ bitten neck; the hickey burns like a brand._

_.-_

He wakes up freezing and painfully hard, tearstained face buried in Derek’s shirt.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


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